


there is still grace in this (put your back into it)

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Insatiable (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Awkwardness, Barebacking, Established Relationship, M/M, Mention of Bob/Coralee, Mention of Bob/Stella Rose, PWP, Praise Kink, porn without plot/plot what plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 15:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17266724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: Sex with Bob Barnard isgood, plain and simple.There’s justonelittle problem.And it’s certainly not anything Bob ever saw himself having a problemwith, but…





	there is still grace in this (put your back into it)

**Author's Note:**

> back at it again, yada yada. this time, with porn! the working title for this fic was 'bobbing,' because that's what me and my friends call it when barnstrong gets it on in the show. 
> 
> big thanks to hannah for beta'ing! 
> 
> enjoy!

Let it be known that Robert Armstrong Junior is _not_ a prude. Hell, just ask Stella Rose—or, well. If someone _had_ asked her before her _tragically_ untimely passing, then they would know: Bob is hardly a wilting flower in the bedroom. He likes sex plenty; he liked it with Stella Rose and he loved it with Coralee.

He also quite likes sex with Bob “Bone the Bum” Barnard, truth be told. He likes it… well… _a lot_.

It’s so different from anything else he’d ever experienced, so strange and exciting. The feel of stubble on his cheek or neck as Barnard kisses him, the firm muscle under his hands as Bob roams his touch over Barnard’s chiseled chest. And, of course, the feeling of Barnard’s dick, pressing up against Bob’s own, or in the dip of Bob’s hip, or between the cheeks of his ass, or _inside him_ —

Sex with Bob Barnard is _good_ , plain and simple.

There’s just _one_ little problem.

And it’s certainly not anything Bob ever saw himself having a problem _with_ , but…

 

 

 

“Why don’t you ever,” he starts, one evening over lambchops with a divine balsamic reduction. He stops and taps his fork along the edge of his plate. There are two candles lit and sitting in the center of their table. He and Barnard both have hefty glasses full of wine. Bob can’t finish his question.

Barnard pauses with a bite of lambchop halfway to his mouth. “What is it, hun?”

Bob shakes his head and spears some food on his fork. He shovels it into his mouth, bite after bite, until Barnard’s hand on his wrist startles him into dropping his fork. Bob chews what’s in his mouth slowly, never breaking eye contact with his boyfriend.

“What’s up?” Barnard asks again. He sets down his fork and pushes his plate aside. “Talk to me.”

Bob sighs. He sets down his own fork and turns his hand up to link his fingers with Barnard’s. He takes a deep breath, exhales, inhales again.

“Why don’t you ever let me fuck you?” He blurts, then reaches for his wine glass with his free hand and downs the whole thing. After he swallows, he gasps for air and stares back at Barnard’s shocked expression.

“Excuse me?” Barnard asks.

Bob chews his bottom lip. Anxiously, he taps his fingers on the side of his wine glass. “You always… when we…” He can’t stop himself from trailing off, and he wishes he had more wine to drink in between his words. His heart is racing a mile a minute and his thoughts are getting foggy. Not from the drink, unfortunately.

“Spit it out, Bob,” Barnard demands.

“I already did!” Bob half-shouts. “You don’t ever let me fuck you! It’s always, always _you_ inside _me_ , and I like that—I like that, a lot. But, it’s _always_ that. And I like everything else we do just fine.” Bob loses his train of thought for a minute, something not helped by Barnard licking his lips across the table. “But, I was just thinking…”

A pause blooms as he trails off for the umpteenth time.

Finally, Barnard speaks. “You sayin’ _you_ wanna be inside me, Bob?”

Just like that, Bob’s half hard in his pants and breathless. Barnard does it effortlessly, as though it’s nothing to just _say_ those things.

“Finish your lamb,” Barnard commands, starting to dig into his own food again.

Bob obeys.

 

 

The rest of the dinner passes like any other night. There’s no more talk of who’s going to be inside whom, and the food is delicious and the wine gets them both good and tipsy. Barnard kisses him at their bedroom door and shoves him toward the California King that rests on a polished wooden bedframe.

“I’m going to freshen up.” Barnard smirks before ducking into the en suite. The door locks shut behind him and the sound of running water follows soon after.

Bob strips down to his undershirt and boxers, arranges his clothes neatly in the hamper in the walk-in closet, and then sits himself on the edge of the bed. He grips his knees until his grip is white-knuckled and tries to regulate his breathing.

Barnard takes an excruciatingly long time. The minutes tick past like eons, endless and drawn out. By the time the lock on the bathroom door _clicks_ , sweat is beading along Bob’s hairline and ruining his toupee.

Barnard comes out with nothing but a towel slung around his waist and still dripping wet from the shower. He smirks at Bob and gestures to the bed.

“Up you get,” he says as he strides across the bedroom. Bob scrambles back and sits against the headboard after shoving their pillows out of the way. As an afterthought, he yanks off his undershirt. He stares, enraptured, as Barnard drops the towel from his waist.

Barnard is all chiseled lines and even, honey-colored skin. He’s got a dark but minimal smattering of hair on his chest and a defined treasure trail leading down in between the sharp-cut v of his hips. His cock is at half-chub and bounces against his thigh as he makes it to the foot of the bed and stands proudly.

“I never asked you to fuck me,” he starts, “for a number of reasons.” He braces one knee on the bed as he speaks. “First and foremost, I’ve thought about being inside you since little ol’ puberty-stricken me even realized that was an option.”

Bob lets out a shuddering breath.

“Second, and this is just me bein’ humble, I’ve got a cock that was _made_ to be taken.” He accents his words with a few quick strokes to said appendage, and quick enough he’s fully hard and long. Bob’s mouth waters as he remembers what it’s like to have Barnard in his mouth; his whole body shivers at the memory of feeling the other man deep inside him.

Barnard smirks. “Third,” he continues, and in all honesty, Bob’s finding it hard to keep listening. “After the first couple times, when I realized just how well you take it.” He strokes his cock again and precome spreads over his fingers. “I didn’t wanna give it up.”

He’s on the bed now, on his knees and looming over Bob. Part of Bob wants to spread his legs and welcome his lover between them just as he has several times now. His own dick is stiff and tenting his satiny boxer-briefs, and his body is tight with anticipation. He doesn’t reach for the lube quite yet.

Barnard finally stops touching himself—a blessing and a curse—and reaches out to drag Bob’s underwear down his legs and toss it aside. Then he climbs astride Bob’s lab, caging him in with strong thighs, and letting their cocks brush between their bodies.

Barnard leans in and ghosts a kiss over Bob’s lips. “I was scared, too.”

That draws Bob up short. “What?”

“I was scared,” Barnard repeats. He reaches up and cups Bob’s cheeks, holds his stare intently. “That you wouldn’t like it, or that it might spook you, or…” Barnard trails off with a half-hearted shrug.

Bob kisses him. His hands find Barnard’s hips and squeeze. His nails bite into tan skin and he holds on hard, firm, until a breathy sigh is breaking from Barnard’s lips into Bob’s waiting mouth.

“Never,” Bob promises with a gasp as the kiss breaks. “M’yours.”

Barnard breaks into a grin. “Yeah?”

Bob nods frantically.

“Good.” Barnard reaches over to the bedside table and snags the bottle of lube from inside. He slicks up three of his own fingers and then tosses the tube aside; he rests one hand on Bob’s shoulder and brings the other behind him. Bob wants to see, but something even hotter ignites in his veins at _not_ seeing Barnard open himself up.

Barnard lets out the softest gasp and underneath it, there’s a wet, slick sound. The muscles in his chest, his shoulder, his bicep all strain as he works one finger into himself and stops. He heaves for air and blinks down at Bob, who can’t help but stare up at Barnard in awe. He’s felt Barnard’s fingers inside him, knows just how talented the man is with them. It feels like an electric current of knowledge: Bob remembering the sensations and Barnard experiencing them in this very moment.

Barnard moans quietly and rises higher on his knees as he, presumably, slips another finger into himself. His head tips back and reveals the long lines of his neck; Bob can’t resist leaning in and biting, sucking a mark into the tanned skin. Barnard whines at it and his hips jump, smearing precome over Bob’s stomach.

“Been a while,” Barnard says. His voice is thin and stretched out, and he’s panting from the effort. His hips gyrate as he fucks back on his own fingers, and Bob is well and truly mesmerized. He can’t look away from Barnard’s bobbing, erect cock, nor from the sweat starting to prickle across Barnard’s hair-dusted chest.

Bob flexes his hands on Barnard’s hips suddenly, as if only just now remembering that he even _has_ hands. “You look incredible,” he says, and tries not to feel too self-conscious as he says it.

Barnard smiles. It’s gentle and warm, makes Bob’s toes curl in the bedsheets. “So do you,” he whispers. He leans in and kisses Bob’s forehead, then his cheek, before snagging his lips in a deep, lingering kiss. He licks into Bob’s mouth and Bob keens into it; he bucks his hips and worries he might come before he’s even inside Barnard.

“Almost there,” Barnard promises. Bob moans lowly and yet again wishes he could see Barnard stretched around three fingers. “I’ll show you, next time. Maybe have you open me up instead.”

“Oh god, sweet Mary, Jesus, and Joseph.”

Barnard laughs and it breaks into a breathless moan. “Think I’m ready for you, Bob. Been waitin’ so long for this moment.”

Bob loosens his hold on Barnard’s hips just enough to help the other man readjust. Barnard shifts on his knees, side to side; their skin sticks together before coming apart with dull _smacks_. Barnard reaches for Bob’s cock and wrings an anguished, throaty gasp from him.

“I might come if you keep doing that,” Bob warns when Barnard continues to stroke him.

Barnard hums, as though considering the warning. “That’d be a shame,” he agrees eventually. He reaches for the lube again and drops a dollop onto Bob’s cock. He strokes him once more, root to tip, to make sure he’s thoroughly covered.

Still with one hand braced on Bob’s shoulder, Barnard looks up and meets his eye.

“You ready?” Barnard asks.

“Oughta be asking you that.”

Barnard smiles again, the same delicate thing as before. He kisses Bob, keeps kissing him even as he sinks onto Bob’s cock, the tip popping into him after a moment’s resistance. Barnard moans into the kiss. It’s shaky and uneven, _loud_ , too. Barnard is always loud in bed but it’s different this time. It’s not showy, animalistic grunts or dirty, filthy words falling from his lips.

This is pitchy, coming from deep in his chest like the sounds are punched out of him involuntarily. Bob’s ears are ringing from the sound, and he’s trying desperately to commit each and every noise to memory. He thrusts up just seconds before Barnard takes him to the hilt, and they let out identical gasps.

“That’s it,” Barnard coos instantly. “Fuck me, Bob. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Bob lets out a strangled grunt and tightens his hold on Barnard’s hips once more. He uses the bruising grip for leverage as he pulls Barnard down to meet his thrusts. He’s not strong enough to lift the other man, but Barnard does the work there. He rises up on his knees like it’s nothing, even as Bob can see the lean muscles in his thighs working against the strain.

“Oh, _oh_ , right there, baby, that’s it.” Barnard’s voice is low but encouraging, heady and addictive like a drug. Bob kisses sloppily along Barnard’s jawline as he does his best to keep his rhythm. Barnard’s hands, one still lube-sticky, roam over Bob’s shoulders and neck, into his hair and cupping his cheeks. “Doin’ so good, hun, fillin’ me up, huh? Feel good?”

“So good,” Bob manages to wheeze out. He’s getting perilously close to his edge, and he hates for it to be over so soon. “Gonna come.”

Barnard immediately drops a hand to his own dick and starts to stroke quickly. “Do it, Bob. Come inside me, been dreamin’ about you doing it.”

Bob slams his eyes shut, overwhelmed by everything: the sensation of Barnard tight around him, the scent of sex and sweat, and the sight of Barnard’s chiseled body working itself on Bob’s dick.

Barnard leans in—not that Bob can see him, only feel him, particularly when he gets close enough to let his words ghost teasingly over Bob’s lips—and whispers. “Do it, Bob. _Come_.”

Bob’s father used to say he was never very good at following orders, but that’s very clearly _not_ the case.

He feels himself slipping down the headboard, onto the bed, as his hips buck wildly, lifting Barnard in a jerky pattern. His hands on Barnard’s hips slide from sweat until he reaches around and takes two handfuls of Barnard’s ass instead, grips the tight muscle and pulls the other man close to him.

Barnard moans and Bob’s aware of come spattering over his chest as Barnard strokes himself off. He cracks one eye open to watch as Barnard lets go of his softening dick to reach out and smear the come into Bob’s skin instead, letting it catch on his chest hair.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Bob gasps one last time as the final pulses of his orgasm race through him to fill Barnard up instead. He goes tense and tight, back bowed as he thrusts up, and then they’re both suddenly falling—Barnard against Bob, and Bob against the bed. It’s like they’re melting, as though coming sapped all their strength, down to their cores.

Bob winds his arms around Barnard’s back and strokes. After a few minutes, Barnard leans back and grins. He smacks a noisy kiss against Bob’s cheek and lets the stubble scrape against Bob’s skin.

“That was so good,” Barnard murmurs. He’s peppering kisses all across Bob’s face, jaw, neck. “You did so good, baby. Knew you would.”

Bob flushes hotly at the praise and realizes belatedly just how much it got to him in the heat of things. Barnard smirks at him and Bob rolls his eyes.

Barnard kisses him soundly, until they’re both panting for air once more.

“What do you say,” Barnard starts. “Round two in, hm, twenty minutes?”

Bob’s not as young as he used to be, and more than once he’s found himself sometimes struggling to keep up with Barnard’s pace. But tonight? Bob feels invigorated, full of boundless energy.

Bob grunts and rolls them over until Barnard is on his back. He slips from Barnard’s body and makes a line of kisses down the other man’s chest, nipping here and there just to feel Barnard’s body jump under him. He pauses long enough to look up at Barnard and see him staring back, flushed and shocked.

This time, it’s Bob that smirks. “Make it ten.”


End file.
